


Time is on my side

by Fatale (femme)



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, handjobs and coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d not thought about Neal in his clothes. Objectively, he was aware Neal was slightly smaller than him, but he’d never imagined Neal being smaller could be such a turn on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time is on my side

Time is on my side  
WC: 640  
Rated: R  
Neal/Peter

** Feel free to point out typos and tense changes. God, I am such a mess.

 

Peter liked seeing El in his clothes -- it was probably a strange holdover from his Neanderthal-brain that wanted to secretly bash El over the head and carry her back to his cave to have his way with her. He didn’t much know and didn’t much care; it was hot either way. He’d not thought about Neal in his clothes. Objectively, he was aware Neal was slightly smaller than him, but he’d never imagined Neal being _smaller_ could be such a turn on.

And then he saw Neal making coffee, humming idly to himself in Peter’s sweatpants and an old long-sleeved shirt from Quantico, letters faded, cotton pilled with age. The sleeves brushed against his knuckles, and the sweats slipped down his hips as he absently hiked them up again and again.

Peter’s fingers twitched, a hot burst of lust flared low in his belly. He wanted to hold Neal down, press him into the mattress, and fuck him silly. He wondered if Neal would object to being slung over his shoulder and carried up the stairs. Most likely. Neal was touchy about those kinds of things.

Neal looked up then, startled eyes meeting his. “Oh, hey,” Neal said, small sleepy smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Coffee should be ready in a few minutes.”

Peter wanted to tell Neal that watching the coffeepot wouldn’t actually make the caffeine come faster, but he didn’t bother. Peter suspected Neal would pump coffee into his veins intravenously if he could.

“Great,” Peter said and slid behind Neal, feeling Neal tense up, and then slowly - _beautifully_ \- relax and let himself lean back against Peter.

Peter pressed slow, tender kisses against Neal’s neck, which Neal leaned into, eyes closed, mouth parted. Peter slipped his hand down the front of Neal’s sweats easily, gripping his cock and stroking him slowly to hardness. Neal sighed gently, let his head drop back onto Peter’s shoulder and Peter brushed a kiss over his temple, where the light sheen of sweat gathered. He stroked until he felt Neal’s breathing turn fast and shallow, then sped up, flicked his hand over the tip, just to make Neal crazy. Neal’s hips stuttered forward as he fucked into Peter’s hand until he came with a low moan, savagely biting his bottom lip. Peter held him up through the aftershocks, watching his dark eyelashes flutter, the slick tremble of his lips.

“Jesus,” Neal said finally, voice low and husky. “What a way to wake up.”

Peter wanted to tease him, to ask if it was better than coffee, but he couldn’t. Neal so rarely allowed anyone this -- to see him less than perfect, skin flushed, hair disheveled, bonelessly leaning into Peter, pre-suit, stripped of all the humor and wit he armored himself with to face a world where he didn’t quite fit in, a world he could only emulate, never quite belong in.

If Peter was free to speak his mind, to let Neal know one thing and have him understand without getting defensive or brushing it off, beyond love, friendship or affection, it would be this: Life's not a spectator sport and Neal was meant to be a star, not sit on the sidelines. Everything else was simple -- Neal was easy to love, to befriend; those he could get in spades from all different directions.

This lesson, though, this needed to come from Peter.

Peter withdrew his hand, wiped it on the front of the sweats, figuring they were a lost cause anyway.

“Coffee,” Peter reminded, rather than asked.

Neal hummed his agreement. “Coffee, then?” he said, the end lilting suggestively.

“And then,” Peter agreed and kissed his neck again quickly, before Neal woke up completely, before this progressed to fucking and bickering and stolen soft glances in the spaces in between everything else.

 

 

The end.


End file.
